Fuck Me. The tinsley Made In China synthetic decorations are up again. One cant go to the supermarket without being eye-raped by plastic baubles and fat people in red suits. That's right Boys and Girls, The horror of Christmas is upon us once again.
As if thousands of years of folly and murder commited in the name of that absurd cult "Christianity" weren't enough, it appears we in the 21st century are doomed to relive, year after year, the indignity of gladwrapping a boiled egg-garnished salad to take to Auntie Yvette's Xmas Day BBQ.
Well, not for me.
It is from hard-learned experience that I no longer participate in that concentration camp of family gatherings: Christmas Day. The maniacal and delusional conversation designed by Presbyterian grandparents intent on news of my latest "Girlfriend" will no longer pollute my ears on December 25th. By the way Nana and Poppa, I take it up the arse. Deal with it.
Instead, when it comes time to deck the halls, I prefer to embark on a champagne and cocaine bender with close trashbag friends. Call me crazy, but it sure beats whacking on about my hypothetical Tertiary career with people I blatantly have nothing in common with, aside from a little DNA.
Last Christmas for instance, was an exercise in internal organ battery that any seasoned alcoholic would be proud of.
Christmas Eve '07: Its Time To get Dumb at 4:20 K Rd. Donning a pair of Lime-green stockings and red-sequined Trannie Shoes, and gulping down a pill, the Xmas spirit was literally all over me, right through to my grinding jaw. Merrily, I proceeded to get so shamelessly trashed that I could no longer stand, and ended up lying down, head in the lap of the heroically sexually liberated Kain Jones. Fast forward twenty minutes later, and I was crying into his groin about the state of some incredibly misguided joke of a relationship I thought at the time was "True Love", with a blasphemously boring Ponsonby Thespian Type. Merry Christmas.
Hobbling over, heels in hand, to 464 K Rd (a flat I often ended up crashing at, face down on the couch fully clothed) I spent that most magical of Eves dribbling into the upholstery. Waking up throbbing headed-Christmas Day, my partner in chrissy-rejection and I stumbled up the road to the service station to get $2 festive hot dogs to wash down with strong vodkas.
A couple of hours later, we were picked up by a friend with a Volkswagen and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and taken to the Family home of good-time-girl and Marilyn-Monroe a-like Lucy Hunt. As we entered her North Shore Homestead, the whanau were in the midst of a hearty bicker, with Miss Hunt doing most of the screeching and swearing. Slightly awkward, but nothing a stiff gin couldn't doctor.
Around this time, "Tom The German" showed up. None of us really had any idea who he was, except that in a drunken conversation late into some trashy night Lucy had invited him to her Family's Xmas Lunch. His one redeeming feature was that somehow he had an upper-crust English accent which, despite the monstrously mundane dribble that he seemed to think was conversation, vaguely kept us charmed.....
After well and truly outstaying our welcome and parking ourselves into the TV Room watching "Girls of the Playboy Mansion", we piled into the car (complete with intoxicated driver) and headed back to the city. I was dropped off at the place a good friend and champion wine-guzzler was house-sitting. The house was owned by a top Auckland Restaurateur, and as such had a prolific and immensely drinkable cellar, which we made quick work of indulging in. Once we had downed so much booze that we could no longer see, I insisted on sleeping in the Master Bedroom. Of Course.
All in all, the majority of those couple of days was a blissful blurr, in which I was never without a drink or a cigarette....And that, readers, is what Christmas is all about. Just Say No to Horrid distant relatives soul-destroying family functions. Don't be fooled: The only time "Family" should ever pass your lips in the silly season is if you are saying "Lets go to Family Bar"....I'll see you there....After, of course, the sure-to-be-glorious Sohomo "Lost Boys" Christmas Eve Party....